A Perfect World

I keep finding myself tacking the word “brother” onto the end of my sentences, like:

“You can get two roasted chickens at Giant Eagle for $6.99, brother.”

And even when I catch myself before actually saying it out loud, I’m still thinking it. Doesn’t matter if you’re a man or a woman or transgendered or somewhere else on the complex gender spectrum, I’m gonna call you brother. At least in my head. And it’s all my boss’s fault. He says it all the time, in a cool California way that I could never possibly mimic no matter how much I practice in front of a mirror. Because that’s my boss. He’s this smooth laid back dude with piercings and tattoos and thick glasses who calls everybody “brother.” And, like those four years in college when I somehow started speaking Canadian, I have begun emulating this manner of speech without realizing it.

And that’s my new work life. My boss accidentally calls me “brother” and gives me a fist bump before heading home every day. My other co-worker scrawls tiny pictures of dinosaurs onto the pages of proposals before passing them my way for further proofreading. And my other boss, and the owner of our little agency, had a set of turntables delivered to the office the other day. You know, so he could DJ some hoppin’ tunes while we designed websites and shit. Turntables.

Just another day.

So all that’s happening. I’m writing stuff. Lots of stuff. Blog posts and website content and tweets and newsletters and save-the-dates and email blasts. And these people actually trust me to do my job. They say, “Hey, go write this thing,” and I say, “Alright, brother,” and off I go to my freshly-painted blue and yellow office with the Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind movie poster hanging on my wall and I write stuff. And then they read it, and they laugh at my stupid jokes that nobody else finds funny, and they publish it or send it to our client or, you know, give me another fist bump. We’re big on fist bumps.

This is my job. I mean, I would do this shit for fun, but somebody has actually agreed to pay me for this.

And then Sean and I decided it was time to go look at houses. And we’re having these conversations, these fucking adult conversations about how we need at least three bedrooms so we have room for the kids (THE KIDS!), and how we need a nice high fence around our yard so the little munchkins don’t run out into the street (THE MUNCHKINS!) and how we need a kitchen with ample counter space so we can cook meals for the children (THE CHILDREN!). Counter space. I’m having conversations about counter space.

My life, man.

So that’s happening. And other stuff is happening, too. Stuff with some of my best friends, life-changing stuff. Big milestone type stuff. And it all feels really good, like we’re all growing up and figuring out how to fit into our skin and create our own joy or something. And it all makes me really, really happy.